


Blindsight

by Brenda



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Competence Kink, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Michael doesn't think he'll ever get used to it, to the way the hairs stand on the back of his neck, the way his breath hitches and his heart races, the way he's instantly </i>aware<i> and alert the second he senses Damien in his vicinity.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindsight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



Michael feels Damien's presence – the gravity around him shifting and tilting, heavy and weighted with promise – before he actually comes into view. Feels that all-too familiar itch just under his skin, the way the air coalesces, crackles with energy, like a lightning storm about to strike. Michael doesn't think he'll ever get used to it, to the way the hairs stand on the back of his neck, the way his breath hitches and his heart races, the way he's instantly _aware_ and alert the second he senses Damien in his vicinity.

Michael's gone on countless missions for Queen and Country, has had too many partners to name both in the Royal Marines and Section 20, but Damien Scott is unlike anyone he’s ever met. A category all to himself, unique in his utter _uniqueness_. Everything about Damien is as American as it gets – he's brash and bold and ballsy as fuck and doesn't believe in any sort of restraint or even in the chain of command – but there's no one on earth Michael would rather have at his six. Off-mission, Damien’s affable, loud, indiscriminate about the alcohol he drinks and the people he fucks, but out on the field, he's 100% pure warrior, absolutely locked in, deadly accurate in both weapons and hand-to-hand combat, and as silent as a whisper. If Damien doesn't want to be seen, then good luck trying to spot him. It's a vital skill in their line of work, and a big reason he takes point when they're together.

Damien drops silently to a crouch beside Michael, peers through the thick brush to the clearing beyond. He's scruffier than usual, with mud and bits of leaves and twigs sticking to his olive-drab shirt and pants, but he seems fine, otherwise. Michael knows he doesn't have much room to talk, as he's just as covered in grit and grime. The first thing he's doing once they get back to base and suffer through debriefing is crawl into a hot shower and possibly stay there for a week.

"Report," he says, tries to make it a request instead of an order. 

"All quiet so far. Farrat and his dickhead buddies are still on the other side of the river, no scouts or any sign of anyone on the paths or in the trees. How many rounds you got left, Mikey?" Damien asks, the words a low murmur, barely audible over the noisy and colorful chatter of the birds overhead.

Michael pops out his magazine, gives it a quick glance before snapping it back in place. "Half a mag, and two spares. Three clips for my handgun. You?" His voice is just as quiet.

"One and a half mags for the M-16, three for the .45, and five hand grenades."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Damien replies, succinct for once. Not that there would be much to add. They don't have nearly enough firepower to get through the militia camp that's between them and their extraction point. "You been able to call up Richmond yet?"

"Negative. Comms are still offline."

" _Fuck._ " Damien sighs, and finally sinks to the ground to sit next to Michael, rifle resting across his knees. "How far again to the extraction site?"

"Six klicks."

"Yeah, no way we're making it around these assholes in broad daylight. We're gonna have to wait until dark. You still got the NODs?"

"Yeah." Michael pats the pouch at his belt. His alert gaze doesn’t leave the perimeter guard stationed on the edge of the clearing. "But it's not gonna mean fuck all unless we can get in touch with command to have the chopper waiting on us."

"One thing at a time, alright." Damien grins, bright and sharp and very white against the dirt smeared on his cheeks and the dark stubble shadowing his jawline. "How's the wound?"

Michael flexes his bicep. The bandage wrapped around his arm moves, but no blood oozes out from under it, thank fuck for small favors. They've got enough working against them without one of them going at less than full speed. "Think the bullet just grazed it. Still smarts like hell."

"Yeah, the shallow ones always do. You want me to kiss it better for you?" Damien asks, with one of his expressive eyebrow waggles.

"Not until we're both a fuck of a lot cleaner."

"What's a little dirt between friends?"

"Infection."

"Spoilsport." Damien shakes his head. "You fucking Brits, man, always so uptight."

Michael's lips twitch. "And you fucking Americans, always jumping into shit without thinking."

"Hey, now, you're the one that told me to blow up the Jeep," Damien says, then lets out a harsh sigh. "I really want a fucking cigarette."

"Sorry, mate, can't help you there."

"Not like it would matter. I light up, it's as good as a flare for these pricks." Damien twists, peers through the brush again. "What'd'ya think, 35 maybe? 40?"

"73, last count."

"Fuck."

"Your math skills are appalling. Don’t they teach simple addition in your schools?"

"Sure they do, but it’s not like I paid any attention in class. That's why you're the brains of the operation and I'm just the muscle."

"At least you found something you're good at," Michael smirks, and drops on his ass next to Damien, presses against him hip to hip and thigh to thigh. He's not particularly cold or anything, but the heat pouring out from Damien's body is welcome all the same. Proof that they're both here and alive, for the moment.

They’ve been in some truly tight spots over the years, but this one has to rank up there. Top three, at least. 

"Alright, let's take stock. So, we can't go back to the village and exfil there because –"

"Because we used the Jeep to blow up the bridge, which was our only transportation," Michael finishes.

"Which was your idea," Damien says, and nudges Michael's shoulder.

Michael shrugs. "Bought us some time." It had been either that or try to shoot it out, two against a hundred. Not exactly sporting odds.

"Yeah, it did, but now we're stuck in this shithole without transport or backup, with a freaking militia group between us and getting the fuck out of Dodge, and no way to contact our people for any air support."

"Which they wouldn't send anyway, because we're not really here, remember."

"Yeah, I remember," Damien grumbles. "Fucking politics, man, I _hate_ that shit."

"I know." Michael hates it just as much, but he's not as vocal about it. But then, no one's as vocal as Damien about anything. By now, Michael's used to it. And, if he's honest, comforted by it. Not that he'd ever say as much, but he suspects Damien knows all the same how much Michael’s come to rely on the wry comments and wise-arse remarks.

"And I really dunno that we can wait until dark, either. Farrat's men are gonna find some other way to get across the river eventually."

"Agreed." Michael glances at Damien out of the corner of his eye. Grins as an idea comes to him. Damien glances back, at first puzzled, then –

"No. No _fucking_ way, Mikey. You've got to be fucking with me, right?"

"It worked in Bentiu, didn't it?" 

"Well, yeah, but that was Bentiu," Damien hisses, fairly vibrating with irritation. "In case maybe your eyes aren't working, this is not fucking Bentiu."

"It worked once." And it's not like they have too many other options.

"We were lucky." Another beat, then Damien groans. "I swear to fucking Christ, if we don't die out here, I'm killing you the second we get back to base."

"I'll make it up to you," Michael promises, with his own nudge.

"I want a blowjob _and_ a bottle of scotch. The good stuff, too, no cheap shit."

"Cheap's more your speed, Scotty, not mine," Michael replies, amused. He has his doubts that Damien knows what good whiskey is even supposed to taste like. He also has his doubts that Damien knows the difference between a good bj and a so-so one – he's never struck Michael as the type to care about technique as long as his dick's getting sucked.

Damien makes a face. "Guess I can't argue there. We got a deal or not?"

"Yeah, we've got a deal." They bump fists to seal it.

"I'd ask for a kiss for luck, but I'm kinda pissed at you right now."

"I love you too," Michael says, and twists to survey the clearing. "Alright, motor pool is forty metres out on your eight o'clock, two guards, one gate, go in low and easy, stick with the knife if you can."

"I'm on it." Damien comes up to a crouch, then glances down at Michael. His eyes are vividly blue, watchful and serious. "I meant what I said. A hummer and scotch."

Michael lifts an eyebrow. The air around them seems to shimmer with possibility. "I'm good for it." 

"Yeah, I know you are." Then Damien rests a solid, warm hand on Michael's shoulder, and squeezes. Michael doesn't think twice about covering it with his own, squeezing back. Another promise, freely given. They’d make it through this, together as always.

Then Damien drops his hand. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, reckless and wide and impossible to resist. "Keep an eye on my ass, alright."

"Always," Michael says, with an answering grin, then makes a point of checking out said ass. "On you get. I'm right behind you."

"Counting on it," Damien says, then slinks back out into the forest. Michael waits a beat, then follows, rifle at the ready.

***


End file.
